


axiom

by DrSchaf



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Pining, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-18 04:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13092018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: He loves Rocco like a brother. Like one should love a brother; annoying sometimes, awesome at other times. Great to be around, also great to say goodbye to.He doesn't love Murphy like a brother.





	axiom

**Author's Note:**

> I disappeared for a bit and I'm sorry for that, especially when I see the comments you guys left. I didn't mean to ignore you, I was just not feeling up to coming here. Buuut I didn't stop writing in the meantime, so I think it's time to polish some of the new stories and get them out there. Starting with a small one to get back into the game. 
> 
> Happy New Year! :)

This isn't pining; there hasn't been anyone else for him, simple as that. There's no self-imposed abstinence, no crying himself to sleep, no dark thought. It didn't spring on him one day and it didn't dawn on him in a sudden flash. It just was, always, mixed with a quiet longing maybe, or a few drawn-out sighs. Nothing he couldn't handle.

Murphy doesn't need to know, why burden his brother with something he has no control over? He's happier this way, they both are, and he learned to turn a blind eye whenever Murphy starts to work his artless charm. It's only ever for one night while he has him the rest of the time. Looking away and finding solace in drinking with Rocco, chatting with Doc or calling Ma - it doesn't bother him.

It never did.

*

Rocco chugs a shot of something he doesn't want to know about. “It's weird, is all I'm saying. You can do what you want, obviously, but it's still a fact, you know? It's always just the two of you.” He pulls a face and shakes his head like a dog trying to get rid of water instead of the bitter taste of his drink. “Never any girlfriends,” he mutters.

Doing who knows what at the back of a bar, Murphy doesn't hear. Thank the Lord, because his heart is in the process of sinking into his fucking feet and if his brother were near, he'd see. “If ye say so.”

“I'm not actually saying anything.” Rocco laughs, somewhat vague. “So, you plan to live together forever?”

Something clashes behind him, a pint probably, then someone roars.

“No judgment here,” Rocco yells over the racket, sprinkling him with spit. “I'm just curious.”

Connor grins, heart wherever. “But it's none of yer business.”

The hurt isn't a hurt, and it's a hollow that isn't hollow.

It's filled with _could_ and _maybe_ and _if_ , thudding against his ribs just shy before morning when Murphy turns in bed, brows furrowed and fingers flexing against a dream, and Connor lies in his own bed, looking over with a longing that keeps him from sleeping longer than his brother does. Like it has been for years and like it will go on for years. Watching him is a ritual that restores his spirits so he's able to get through the day, and that's good enough for him.

A lass comes over, rather pretty to look at.

Connor smiles and talks and jokes and steers her toward Rocco—and changes his mind and steers her elsewhere. She seems nice, she probably deserves better. Friend or not, though he doubts Rocco would be offended anyway. Then he turns back to the bar to order another drink and flinches back when he's met with Doc's curious stare. For the occasion, the man even stopped to wipe at the glass in his hand.

“Want another?”

“Aye,” Connor says, clearing his throat. “Please, thank ye.” Waiting for it turns out to be an awkward affair and there isn't a single reason for it; not a minute later, Doc places a fresh beer in front of him, nods, and turns away again. Maybe his eyes are weird, but he keeps his questions to himself, so it's fine. Good enough to pretend Doc didn't see anything and doesn't know anything about—anything. Though nothing happened. Because nothing _happened_.

Fuck.

When the bar begins to clear, he isn't as drunk as he wants to be while Murphy appears to be drunk enough for them both. At least that makes it easier to call it a night, in addition to the fact that his brother smells so strongly of vodka, he wouldn't be surprised if he woke up with a hangover just because he accidentally _breathed_ in his near vicinity. With a sigh, Connor leans him against the bar to get their coats, and the moment he turns back, Murphy staggers forward, grinning and talking at the same time. It's too loud to make sense of it, but Murphy doesn't seem to notice, he simply leans against his side and lets himself be dressed without stopping to happily chat against his neck.

It tickles, a bit too close even for them.

“That's why you don't get laid,” Rocco chimes in, sort of cackling. “I hope you know that.”

Connor jerks, dislodging Murphy in the process, and quickly glances over to make sure he stays upright—Murphy frowns. He doesn't step back, and Connor breathes through his mouth. “Go to sleep, Roc. Yer not making sense anymore,” he says, loud enough someone at the bar laughs as if he's insinuating Rocco drank too much. Which is just fine, both to stay clear of any more frowns and to herd Murphy toward the door.

After one last nod to Doc, Murphy follows him out, quiet and stumbling but not complaining. Making it obvious he isn't fine.

He's mulling something over, and Connor doesn't want to know what it is.

“Hungover already?” he asks, bumping their shoulders when they walk up the stairs and through the door. Murphy shrugs, giving him a look when they close the door behind them.

“Nah,” he says, getting out of his shoes. Then he huffs out a quiet sound and takes off his socks as well. “'m knackered, I guess. Don't feel like sleeping just yet.” He shrugs, weirdly young all of a sudden.

It's stupid and not true. Those few minutes don't count that much, so maybe young is the wrong word: he looks vulnerable. Standing in the middle of the room with his bare toes.

Connor frowns.

The frown melts away when Murphy glances up. “See what's on TV?”

They migrate to the couch and share the last of the cereal right out of the box.

*

“My head,” Rocco says, exhaling against the phone and making him wince. “Listen, about yesterday-”

“It's fine,” Connor hurries, then he shoos Murphy off when he lurks about without trying to appear like he lurks about.

“Who is it?”

Rocco proceeds to hack up a lung. “Hold up,” he wheezes.

A headache creeps up from his neck, thudding dully, and Murphy's feet are still in his line of sight. “It's Rocco, all right.”

“Then why yer looking like that?”

Connor glances up, unexpectedly getting caught by—eyes. They're dark and confused, looking a bit stupid with water still dripping into them from his hair, forcing him to blink too often.

“MacManus.”

Connor jerks, holding the phone back against his ear. “Here.”

“You got them? The keys?”

Keys.

“Keys,” he says. Murphy rolls his eyes and wanders away.

“To open stuff. Doors and such. Chests with treasure in it. Safes.”

“I don't have your keys, Rocco. That what ye wanted?”

Rocco grunts, silent for a moment. “Murphy there?”

Where the fuck else would he be? “Aye,” Connor says, “Wanna talk to him?”

“Nope.”

There's a beat of silence, and this time it's uncomfortable.

“Don't forget about tonight,” Rocco says eventually, then he groans and mutters something under his breath. “I should get some shut-eye before. See you later.”

Connor hangs up.

“Did he lose his keys?”

The smell of Murphy's soap hangs in the air, ridiculously so. It's the same one he uses and he never focused that much on it. It's probably the breath-induced hangover.

“I don't think so,” Connor says, and it's the truth, but he shrugs anyway. It didn't sound like Rocco lost his keys, it sounded like something else. A checkup, maybe.

Murphy frowns, giving him a sudden flashback to last night and the way he frowned after Rocco insinuated whatever he insinuated. Shaking his head against the thought, he moves to take a shower, annoyed and somewhat flustered, while Murphy works at the stove behind him.

*

“Oh, by the way,” Rocco says, arse on the seat of his chair and head thrown back onto the table. He looks like he belongs in The Exorcist, and Connor frowns accordingly. Then some more when Rocco doesn't follow up but continues to grin at the ceiling.

“What?”

Murphy rushes past in an almighty sprint, destination unknown, and for good measure, Connor frowns after him as well.

“Found the keys. You didn't have them after all.” Grinning, Rocco sits up the right way and lights a smoke.

“Told ye,” he points out, reaching for the beer the guy whose name he can't remember put on the table, presumably on his way to—somewhere else.

“I'd remember that.”

“What?”

“We gotta do something about that frown of yours.” With a nod, Rocco reaches for the gin. “It's unhealthy, brother. I say that as a friend.”

“I'm not frowning,” Connor says, frowning.

Somewhere, Murphy giggles like he's back in kindergarten, then something falls. “Oi!”

“Yeah, you are. Don't know why, don't care why,” Rocco sings, filling up two shot glasses. “But it's gotta go. This is my house and nobody frowns in here. You know there's laws against that shit and stuff.”

Connor rolls his eyes, but he does feel a frown on his face and he isn't sure why it's there, so he takes the offered glass and chugs it.

“Another?”

“Another.”

Two more drive the frown back to wherever hidden place in his mind it came from. He doesn't want to know. And he doesn't care, all right, what he cares about is Rocco chasing Murphy around the table for reasons he sort of missed.

“What yer doing?” he asks, blinking one time too many, and then they're gone and the guy without a name plops down next to him.

“Your brother found pictures,” he says, grabbing a random beer. “In a box. Can you believe that? Makes one wonder what Rocco's gotta hide, right? Does he have a wife somewhere? Kids? Elderly parents he keeps in contact with? Maybe a sister or two.” He's sporting a face Connor very decidedly doesn't want to know about either. It's his theme for the night and it works greatly.

“Con!” Murphy cries, jogging past. “Look at this!” No one follows him, but he keeps jogging in a circle like the hyperactive knob he is, a shady box between his hands.

Swaying, Connor tries to push himself up from the table and upends several bottles in the process. “Did ye knock Rocco out or what?”

Murphy titters. “Dunno, lost him somewhere,” he says, and suddenly he's next to him and reaches for his hand to pull him up.

“Lost him?” His hand tingles, but he stands on his feet. Which is a good thing. “Murph, did ye kill him? Is Rocco lying somewhere, dead, in his own flat? Cause I dunno how to take care of that now.”

With awkward movements, Murphy puts the box on the table and opens the lid to peer inside. Connor gawks first at him, then at the nameless guy.

“ _Is_ he?” he asks, head swimming. “How can he get lost in his own house, what's that mean, Murph?”

The movement was awkward because Murphy hasn't let go of his hand. He only notices since no one pays attention to him, with Murphy busy looking at pictures he has no business knowing of and that man staring at their hands with a curl to his lips that looks more disgusted than anything else—and that anything else is something he wants to know about even less than everything else so far on this bloody day.

He tugs his hand free.

“I'm too lazy now, but you're in for a beating later,” Rocco says, fumbling to close his belt.

Murphy grabs his hand and pulls him closer to the box with a small grin on his face. “Look,” he says, nodding at a picture of all three of them. It looks like it's been shot at McGinty's, though the memory is lost to him. The hand around his feels small somehow, not as rough as expected, and he can't bring himself to shake it off again. It's easy to ignore the feeling while looking through the photos; some of them, some of family members he never heard about, some of their usual crowd. It's as easy as ignoring the look Rocco shoots them even though he fucking knows they're close.

It irks him, unreasonably. They're in his home, but this is still private. This is one of Murphy's new quirks, one of many habits he'll lose again. He's quick like that, and shining even in the ugly light. He's like a beacon, and beware if anyone makes him uncomfortable enough to pull away.

No one does. Murphy simply doesn't notice; not him, not the nameless guy, not Rocco.

 

When he lies in bed, Connor remembers at long at last: this isn't normal.

*

There are butterflies. Actual ones and some in his middle, too. This isn't supposed to happen, a bloody smile isn't supposed to do this to him, pulling up his own lips in a matching smile, warming his cheeks. Raising something in his heart, a gentle tugging. Fucking—hell, what the fuck.

Murphy is everywhere. Under the shower, at his side, nursing a beer, walking and laughing and telling awful jokes. He's there in the mornings and in the evenings and in the nights and in the fucking time in-between. He's ever-present, he always was.

Now this. This—thing with the butterflies, out in the open, in the fucking park, on a fucking bench.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Hail Mary.

*

“Thought about it yet? Where you wanna live?” Rocco asks, chewing on something that can't be a gum. It was green—he hopes it's not a chewing gum. “You two, I mean,” Rocco adds.

Connor shrugs, leaning back against the counter that doesn't feel familiar yet. Fucking Russians. “Not really. First our jobs and now this.” He shrugs again. “Something permanent isn't high on my list right now.”

“You talked to him about it?”

The counter digs into his hip, and Connor frowns. “About what?”

“Moving. You know, you two moving somewhere.”

His mind is occupied with replaying second baptisms, dead mobsters, the image of Murphy on his knees with a gun trained on his forehead—it's a lot, and Rocco and his shady agenda don't help in the slightest. The intent behind Rocco's words should be clear, but he keeps fucking failing to grasp it. “I haven't talked to him,” he says just to give _some_ answer.

Rocco shakes his head, laughing into his beard like the madman he is. “Whatever suits you.”

This is the key-conversation all over again. There's something underneath and he's never been surer he doesn't want to know what it is. Nothing good can come out of it, and fighting with Rocco, now that they rely on his hospitality, would be unwise. Yeah, it would. It would—Rocco knows.

Connor nods to himself and turns away under the pretense of getting another beer.

“No judgment here,” Rocco says behind him, forcing him to turn around again, at least his head, to witness the strange gleam in his eyes and the way his hands shoot up as if he wants to fucking pacify him. As if he hasn't said 'no judgment' one too many times lately.

“I don't know what yer talking about,” Connor says, tries.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He waves him off. “Just don't- you know. Here.”

Aye, Rocco knows. He fucking knows, he does, he knows—what now, what, now what. Now fucking what. Connor turns back to face him, heart racing and fingers curling to form a fist. “What?” he asks just in case, just in fucking case he got it all wrong, but then Rocco holds up his hands again, takes a step back, and crushes his hopes.

“I don't care what you do behind closed doors. Never did, brother, did you ever hear me say anything about it?” Rocco shrugs, staring at him. “I just want to use my own bed without- If you get my meaning. You can do whatever you want at your place. When you get it back.”

This is wrong. This is a whole new level of wrong and there's no guidebook on how to proceed. Connor swallows, fighting down memories of butterflies, birthdays, late night TV. A place of their own. “If ye ever say anything like that again—no. If ye ever say anything like that to Murphy, I'll knock out all of yer teeth, aye?”

Rocco grins, shifting. “Touchy topic?”

He isn't dangerous. He's a rabbit pretending to be a shark, that's what he is, and _he_ made the butterflies disappear. It was fucking him and his assumptions, and if necessary, he will fucking end him—

“I just thought I should get it out of the way, but I see the error of my ways. Won't say a word.” Rocco zips his lips, and Connor leaves the kitchen.

Something clatters behind him; a chair maybe, and then Rocco coughs.

“Did you think I wouldn't say anything?” he asks across the room, loud and clear.

Good fucking thing Murphy's out or he would have to make good on his promise. His ears are hot and they aren't supposed to be, nothing about this is supposed to happen, and he can't turn around.

“Because it's obvious. Everyone knows,” Rocco says, confused and quiet like he only gets twice a month. At fucking most. “You really thought I wouldn't bring it up? While you stay here? The way you look at him-”

Connor grabs his coat, voice down to a whisper, “Shut yer gob now or so help me.”

 _Everyone_ knows.

*

When Murphy showers at Rocco's, he can't see.

It's not his body he misses (he does, he does so much. Murphy is lean and fit, and those arms look so scrawny and he still carried him-), what he misses is the connection. The intimacy of being able to see him, to look at him being carefree, lost in thought, whole and healthy. To feel the trust Murphy puts in him, the faith in knowing he can take off his clothes and be safe from comments, mean looks or ill intent.

If he can't see, Murphy's innocence can't wash over him until it cleanses his soul.

He loves Rocco like a brother. Like one should love a brother; annoying sometimes, awesome at other times. Great to be around, also great to say goodbye to.

He doesn't love Murphy like a brother.

*

Rocco is dead.

He broke Murphy's hand, and he isn't sure in which way he loves him. Maybe there is no word for it, maybe it's so terrible no one bothered to invent one.

When Noah leaves to let them mourn in private, they're on their sides, bloodstained chests pressed together. Murphy cries in his arms, and he knows it's not only because of Rocco, not only because of the torture, and not only because Noah found them. It's the loss of it all, a combined disaster, and there's nothing he can do to help.

In the morning, Noah is back. He sits on a chair, watching them sleep, watching them wake. He's looming, ominously, and stays silent until they sit up. “You are very close.”

Murphy shrugs, rubbing his eyes before he glances over. “Yeah,” he says, and that's all and it's just right, as right as not knowing a word for something he wouldn't know what to do with even if he found it. Connor wants to agree, but he can't move under the dark eyes of the man who is his father and he can't talk around the thing in his throat, so he prays instead, both for him and his brother.

For Murphy to stay free of the burden of knowing, and for the eyes that watch them too closely to leave them alone.

*

Murphy in the sun is one of the greatest tests, he thinks. He always fucking thinks it is, but then it's night and Murphy is just as beautiful. If he were drunk, he'd say he's perfect, but he isn't drunk and he can't stop smiling like he's gone in the head, just to see him lounging on the bench, sunglasses on and coat off. He's so pale and never tans, Connor wants to hold his hand.

“What yer thinking about?” Behind the dark glass, Murphy smiles, and he loves him as something else entirely.

“Just enjoying the sun,” Connor says. When Murphy sighs, he puts his arm up on the backrest behind them.

“Aye, who knows where we end up after.”

“Someplace warm,” Connor states. “I vote for somewhere with a beach maybe, but definitely somewhere with palm trees.”

“Palm trees and beaches always go together, no?”

Connor grins, craving a smoke and feeling too content to move his arm away from Murphy's back. “I've got no idea,” he says. “Either way, that's where we're gonna go.”

“Yeah?” For a moment, Murphy sits still, then he reaches for his bunched up coat and fishes out a pack of smokes. “What if Da's got other plans? Ye talked to him about it?” The Holy Mother glows in the sun, making it difficult to still his hand instead of reaching out to rub his thumb over the picture. He could feel his pulse then. “Connor.”

“Aye.”

“Did ye talk to him?”

“Only about the preparations.” Connor shrugs, awkward with his arm on the bench. “But it's two against one. As soon as Yakavetta's done with, we're off towards the sun, I'm telling ye.”

Murphy lights a smoke and then another one right after, holding it out for him to take.

To his face, so he can close his lips around it.

“Yer not agreeing,” Connor mumbles around the filter. It's a good thing too, his voice is probably rough.

Murphy shrugs, looking away and pressing back against his arm, close enough that with a slight turn of his hand, he could reach his neck. If he wanted to.

If the consequences weren't as fatal.

“Just worried that he's got other plans and we've gotta have a whole discussion about it.”

The thumb stays where it is, but his fingers find their way into soft hair. So much darker than his own, even in the sun. Connor tugs, going for playful. “He'll see reason. Just let me do the talking, I'll persuade him if necessary.”

*

Noah doesn't see reason.

When he leaves, it's with good wishes, heavy hugs, and a forced promise for them not to contact him until they decide to return to the righteous path. He leaves them reeling, ushered away into a safe house by Duffy, watched by Dolly, instructed by Smecker—they can't leave anymore.

It's his doing. He's ruining their lives while Murphy doesn't even know. For days, he has to comfort him, spinning lies about the time in prison damaging their father's mind, making up reasons why he would say such a thing, what he could mean by it. By the end, his throat is raw and his eyes burn with unshed tears, with too much smoke and too little sunlight, but it's still not enough. Murphy withers, shrinking into himself like an abandoned pet, and Connor doesn't know what to do anymore.

After a week, he slips out of the house and calls their Ma.

Asking for refuge is much simpler than he imagined, but she's their mother, of course she takes them in. The next call goes to Smecker, and within thirty minutes - courtesy of the congregation - Connor manages to both arrange for someone to take care of faking their passes and booking transport to get them out of the country.

*

Her hugs are as tight as they always were, maybe even more so, and she's pleased to see them while ranting at the same time, keeping the complaints about too few calls and questionable life choices coming until she runs out of breath. In the evening, she has a look of guilt in her eyes, just fleeting, and then a question, off-handed, how soon they plan to move on.

She knows.

“Did he set ye up to this?” Connor asks, Murphy in his line of sight just through the window. He smokes; it drifts around his head and obscures his face, but Connor still knows it's friendly. Murphy doesn't understand yet.

“That one didn't set me up to do anything,” his mother says, face hard. Then her eyes refocus on him and she turns kind again. “He didn't need to.”

Connor nods, looking past her. “We'll leave, it's no problem.”

It's a disaster.

The mere thought of her turning them away is so horrible he doesn't know how to go on. This is home and they've done nothing wrong. Nothing.

Her hand is on his cheek, rough from life, from smokes and drinking. “I love you very much, Connor, just as I love your brother, but there are things I don't need to know about. They're a burden I don't want to carry. You understand that, don't you?”

No, he doesn't understand. No matter how many people think they see, they still got it wrong, every single one of them, and no one ever believed him. The argument is old, ancient, and even though he never had it in other places than his head, he doesn't want to have it again. Instead, he nods, rubbing his cheek against her palm and averting his eyes when he sees her relieved smile.

“Let me tell him,” he says at length, stepping away.

She shakes her head, glaring in that stern way she perfected some time around when they were five and in the process of destroying the house. “I won't have him think I'm chastening you for anything, you know how he is. I tell him straight on or it gets jumbled up in his head until he thinks I stopped loving him or some nonsense like that.”

Of course.

Of course, Connor thinks, trudging after when she walks out onto the porch. Murphy doesn't do nuances. He needs clarity, otherwise he gets unsure about misunderstanding.

*

“Everything is ruined.” Murphy paces, angry like he's never seen him, face blotchy and pale at the same time and hands balled into fists. He's fuming, and Connor's heart turned to stone. “We've got nothing left.”

They're in yet another motel room, this time back home, and there's no place left for them to go. “Nothing's ruined,” Connor croaks. “We will- Murph, ye'll see, we're gonna find somewhere else to go.”

“She doesn't want us in her house. The house we grew up in, Connor. She doesn't want us there.”

“It doesn't matter,” Connor says, voice raw like he's been the one yelling. “It doesn't matter, who knows what goes on in that head of hers. We'll find another-”

Murphy snaps his head up, pointing at him. “Don't,” he hisses, “Don't ye say it again! We're gonna talk about this now.”

No.

“Aye. Good, let's see.” Nodding, Connor scrambles for the map and takes a frantic look. “We go south, find us a farm somewhere to help out. We've got the money from Smecker, maybe we could get a bit more? If we ask Father Sibeal. At least enough to get there, and then we go—from there.”

“Look at me.” It's a demand, heavy and rough, and something in Connor's chest breaks for good.

“I am,” he says, swaying on the spot, torn between slumping on the bed and striding over to his brother to shake his shoulders, to shake some sense into him until he gets on board with planning their fucking lives.

“Ma thinks-” Murphy takes a stuttering breath, then he lets it out with a harsh noise underneath. “She looks at us and she thinks we're fucking.”

He can't move.

Murphy can, he stalks closer, jaw clenched and fists clenched, and Connor can't take it. “Da thought the same. He let us execute someone on live television while he already planned to leave us behind because he couldn't stand to be near us while we _sin_.”

“I don't know- Murph, what do ye want me to say?” He blinks rapidly, shaking all over because this is it, this is the end, any moment now Murphy will leave as well and he'll be— “Tell me. Tell me what to do, I don't know what to do.” He drops the map, waiting for it to be over, and Murphy explodes.

“Nothing! Ye can't do shit about it- No, ye can. Ye can tell me if yer actually this fucking thick or if yer purposely talking in circles!”

“I don't-”

“Stop!” Murphy yells, “Rocco thought the same! Everyone we fucking know thought that and ye stand there and talk about farms, ye fucking arsehole!”

He's supposed to hit him now, but he can't move. A second ticks by, then another and another, ruining their well-used routine while Murphy pants against him, eyes wild and tendons in his neck standing out with stress. He can't move, but he wouldn't know what to do even if he could. “Rocco said that to ye?” he whispers, completely out of his mind.

“And Doc. Duffy. Smecker.” Abruptly, Murphy turns away and gets some distance between them. “There's got to be something about it. There has- Connor, there's something, there has to be, why would they collectively hallucinate, how fucking likely is that?”

Hail Mary, full of Grace.

“Why won't ye fucking _say_ anything?”

“Because I don't know what,” Connor says, and he knows at once it came out too small, then Murphy rushes forward again.

“There _has_ to be something about it!” he yells, shoving at his shoulders. “Ye fucking—ye arsehole.” He shakes him, rattling his brain, and crashes his mouth onto his.

It's hard, teeth pressing behind his lips, making him stare at his brother while he goes slack with shock that isn't shock. It's his heart, burning. A fire that spreads out through his body, igniting his mind and burning behind his eyes. He can't shut them, he has to stare at the frown forming on Murphy's face, at his closed eyes. At his lips on him, if he could.

It's not supposed to be like this, and if it had to happen, then not with such a roughness about it. It was supposed to be soft, bringing the butterflies back to life, making him aware of his own heartbeat and the shape of Murphy's lips under his. Now Murphy crushes him, and when he draws back, Connor bows his head, but only slightly. There's still pride in him despite the tears spilling over.

He didn't do it on purpose, none of it, and Murphy has to know that.

“Connor,” Murphy says, fingertips digging into his shoulders with a force that promises bruises.

Connor keeps his gazed lowered, swaying after him when Murphy angles his head back. Just an inch or two, but it's enough to show how needy he is, how he didn't fight the forced kiss, how he didn't push his brother away and how his lips turned pliant instead of rigid, and then it's too humiliating after all. “I'm so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn't mean to ruin everything.”

“But,” Murphy says, so close and unreachable, “They did that, not ye.” He sounds incredulous, his voice is small like he doesn't understand at all, and Connor sobs without meaning to, barriers crumbling and leaving him raw while Murphy won't let fucking go of him.

“Ye can go home.” Connor swallows, and Murphy's thumbs dig into his flesh with enough force that he finally raises his head. “I wish ye wouldn't, I really wish ye wouldn't,” he rushes out, raw and disgusting, directly into Murphy's face. “I wish ye wouldn't, I would want ye with me but—but ye can go home. To Ma. I'll find something, I'll be all right. We can sort it out, Murph. It will be okay, I think- I think it'll be all right, aye?”

Despite the wild look in his eyes, Murphy waits with a patience Connor didn't know he had in him, then he reaches up to his cheek and brushes through the wetness there, shriveling his heart. “Yer crying,” he states when he's done.

“It's not important.”

The fingers stay, sliding over his face to wipe away the tears on the other side. Then Murphy bows forward until his forehead leans against his and he breathes out with a stutter. “In which way do ye want me with ye?”

His arms hang limply and Murphy's breath ghosts over his face. The secret is out, he doesn't know how to proceed. “In any way,” he whispers. “Like it always was. Or less. Separate rooms, if ye want. Whatever ye want, but-” He won't beg again, but then Murphy's lips press against his again and he forgets everything about staying strong.

This time, they're soft, pushing against him with barely any pressure while they stare at each other, too close to make sense of expressions, especially when he needs to blink through wetness like he's fucking five years old all over again. Murphy cradles his head, thumbs on his cheeks, and it turns out the butterflies weren't dead at all.

They hid, buried deep between his ribs, and now they're free.

Murphy draws off and closes his eyes. When comes back, it's a kiss, not only a press of lips, and Connor holds still, letting the feeling wash over him until he hears nothing but his own heartbeat. This doesn't resemble innocence at all, but it's still as good. Maybe it's even better, though he can't think of a word for it until Murphy pushes close enough the sparse hair on his upper lip scrape over his skin, and then he closes his eyes as well.

It's love, he thinks, cheeks warm when he closes his fingers around Murphy's wrists. Under his palm, they twitch in time with a sharp inhale that parts his lips, allowing him a first taste. Then another, with the tip of a tongue against his; skittish and gone too quickly, but it was there.

“Con,” Murphy says against him, “Ye have to tell me.”

Everything. “What?” he asks softly.

“What I missed.” Murphy leans back until he can see his face. “What ye didn't let me see,” he adds, staring at him.

“If ye want me to.”

“I want-” Murphy swallows, loud in the quiet room, and takes a step back. “I want ye to lock the door.”

Connor does, with shaking fingers. When he turns around, Murphy stands on the same spot.

His shirt is gone.

“Show me first,” Murphy rasps, clouding his mind with sudden panic. He hasn't thought about more than holding Murphy's hand, he never dared to let his thoughts wander further than a vague appreciation of his body—which could be a way to start. If he kissed him again, with his fingers wrapped around the muscles in his upper arms he _knows_ are there. Maybe he could find out whether the hair on Murphy's nape feels as soft as it looks, or whether putting his lips there would draw any reaction.

He could even try to hear Murphy's heartbeat when he presses his ear against his chest, and then go on to see if the dip of his bellybutton is as deep as it looks. If he's sensitive there - if he's sensitive there when he uses his teeth. Maybe, after all of that, he could find out whether his brother smells different when he's bare in front of him on purpose instead of due to the lack of privacy.

Maybe not all of it at once. To get started, it's enough.

“If ye want me to,” Connor says again, throbbing all over everywhere.

“Ye have to,” Murphy says, very demanding and raising his blood pressure with it. “I always want what ye want, I'm just slower to understand it. Ye've got to make me see.”

They meet halfway.

“Yer not slow,” Connor whispers, reaching out, very fucking bold, to take Murphy's hand. He wants to reach up further, to scratch through the hair on his chest, but that's for later. “Yer pure. To me.” It'll stay the same even if he loves him back, eventually. If he wasn't strong enough to taint his brother yet, maybe nothing ever will. “I love ye for it,” Connor says, and it doesn't feel wrong here behind locked doors, behind drawn curtains and with everyone they know thinking they're already doing what they're about to do.

It doesn't feel freeing either, or particularly right.

It feels like a start.

 


End file.
